


Breathe Again

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [24]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Body Dysphoria, Bottom Sam, Breathplay, Bruises, Choking, Coming Untouched, Dean in Panties, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Genderbending, Genderfuck, Lace Panties, M/M, Marking, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, POV Dean Winchester, Panties, Panty Kink, Post-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Queer Sam Week, Queer Themes, Riding Crops, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Sam In Panties, Threesome - M/M/M, Top Dean, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:42:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1937877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty one inches of leather.</p><p>"Sam. This is Tom."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathe Again

**Author's Note:**

> READ THE TAGS. /falls over/
> 
> i wrote this on the train to and back and oh god. what have i created. 
> 
> notes-- pronouns disappear towards the middle and into the end, this is intentional. this is a piece for Queer Sam Week, combining day 3 and 4: favorite threesome and pride colors. now, this is the Chicago Verse. I couldn't bring an actual THIRD into this. it wouldn't work. i'm sorry. but i made it work in a different way. >w>
> 
> for pride colors, I wanted to do something unique to their relationship. me personally, i have a queer sam head canon, which is why i love writing wincest with genderfuck. there's a touch of dysphoria in here, i've warned for it, but i think it's realistic. if you know what that feels like, it can throw everything off and it takes a really strong sense of trust to let someone know what's going on in your head. f you have a question about the anatomy here/what Dean does/etc. please let me know. i'll happily answer questions. 
> 
> anyway, ugh. this fic. i'm exhausted in the best way. i've been waiting for a while to write this. ;w;
> 
> the colors part of this is the BDSM pride flag. google it and you'll see it's the first thing that comes up--blue, black, white, red. 
> 
> i've decided to incorporate a Sara B song into every Queer Sam Week fic. today's is "breathe again." it's a sad song about a breakup, but there are those lines that just worked. focus on those lines only. and listen to the song, you'll love it. 
> 
> also, Sam only says like, two lines in this entire fic. Dean speaks everything else.
> 
> so here we are. go read. i'm gonna... go... do something... constructive. X3
> 
> thanks to M for the quick beta. 
> 
> comments appreciated! first time writing anything with a crop, so i hope i got it. <3

He buys it because he knows how to use it.

There are fancier selections, more complicated and delicate. But Dean is a simple man. He doesn’t need much to do a lot. Anyone can wield a flogger. But it’s the restraint of the crop that he enjoys the most. Twenty-one inches of dark, supple leather provide a tapered tip to command with the specific, calculated flicks of his wrist. It feels good to work it; it feels better to work it against the body underneath him.

Sam will never say these things out loud. The choker is on. As are a pair of lace panties. Dean bought this pair. Special order, they are black, with a ruffled frill that frames the cock underneath it. They’re a size too small on purpose. That’s not even his favorite detail. He traces the tip of the crop over the tiniest silk, white bow on the center of the panties. It’s feminine in a way lace can’t be. It’s a button Dean knows Sam wants his mouth on. Not yet. They’re just getting started.

Introductions must be made.

A push at the heaviest part in the bulge of the panties is made with the tip. Restraint.

“Open your mouth.” Not a question. Not a please.

Without hesitation or second thought, Sam listens. Dean’s cock twitches in the black briefs he has chosen for tonight. They match. They’re a set. These are also special order. The front of the briefs has been replaced by a panel of thick, rough lace. Any movement he makes with his hips causes his cock to feel the scratch and rub of it. He’ll have Sam’s tongue feel it too, but later. Dean has to wait.

Muscles in his arm flex as he adjusts his grip.

“Sam. This is Tom,” Dear murmurs, leaning forward, pressing his mouth close to Sam’s ear, like this is a secret. He brings the tip up and outlines the same mouth that used to suck him off nightly when they were teenagers. He taught that mouth. He trained it to deep throat, to choke, to take it, take it until Dean was crammed in there, to the root, the bloated head of his cock completely enclosed in the back of Sam’s throat. And in the years that have gone by, this mouth has learned a few other things.

Tom pushes into this mouth.

“Suck him off.”

Pink, slick lips follow the order. They close and seal around Tom, suckling, licking, breaking open to moan at the feeling of Dean pressing their hips together. Lace meets lace. Dean keeps himself held up by his arms, surrounding Sam, breathing into his ear, nipping at the lobe.

It takes a minute for Tom to fatten. He stretches Sam’s mouth open, working in circles, changing angles, pushing Sam’s throat back a little. Boundaries have to be tested. Tom sneaks past Sam’s tongue, forcing it down after some resistance. No. Stay open. The muscles in Sam’s throat work and his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows what Tom feeds him. Further back. Where is the limit. Not everyone knows Sam the way Dean does and it’s Tom’s turn to find out.

Sam’s throat closes and his eyes water. He shakes his head in resistance.

“Open up,” Dean commands, lifting his hips off of Sam’s. “Open up, Sam.”

Red in the face, Sam shakes his head no. He starts to gag. Tom holds back. One second later, he pushes forward again, until Sam is choking, coughing, spitting, and clinging to the bed sheets. That isn’t the boundary—not even close. Tom withdraws. Mewling, Sam doesn’t wipe the spit off his chin or the tears from his face. He breathes in deep, his tongue showing, and Dean resists the urge to suck on it. Sam could have gone further. He will go further.

In movements that are quick, silent, and practiced, Dean lifts himself up and settles his hips over Sam’s face. He opens the slit in the front of his briefs and pushes his cock against Sam’s open mouth. One tap is given. A courtesy. After that, Dean shows no such niceties. He drives his cock in, forces it past Sam’s tongue, and sighs at the sound of gasping. Teeth graze Dean in the right places, with a little more force than usual—a small sign of rebellion Sam knows he can get away with for now. Cheeky fuck. Is this all he thinks he’s going to get?

Dean adjusts his hips, twists a little, his thighs settled on either side of Sam’s face, his balls resting on the still-wet curve of Sam’s chin. He circles himself, wringing Sam’s mouth open, making room.

The space made is filled a second later. Tom glides in.

Sam groans. Dean looks behind him. The panties are completely tented, stretched out by the desperate press of the cock they can’t hold. Patiently, the white bow waits. Tom is not so patient. He wants to feel what Dean can feel. Side by side, the tips of them work their way further down Sam’s throat. Dean starts to thrust, fucking Sam open this way while Tom drives forward. The tip of Tom flutters near the boundary. Sam holds it. Spurred on, Tom hovers, until he decides to press it, and then past it a fraction to explore, to see, is this really how far Sam can go? Pink, stretched out lips begin to move against them. Choking noises are louder and Dean can feel Sam start to breathe harder out of his nose. Almost. Hold it. Tom wriggles a scratch more. It’s different here—more tender, softer, like it’s new, velvet territory.

Eyes scrunches close, Sam raises his right hand, gagging louder, his entire throat spasming.

Immediately, Tom draws back, followed by Dean. They slip out with a wet pop, and Sam coughs, wheezing and sputtering until Dean grabs his chin and crushes their mouths together. He swallows every ragged breath, devours every slick of spit from Sam’s mouth that tastes like him…. and Tom.

No one kisses Sam except for Dean. Tom waits.

Hips back near Sam’s, Dean grinds them together. He hasn’t tucked himself back into his briefs. There’s no need. He humps the mound of lace under him, consuming the broken, rattling cries from the pink mouth that begs for more. It will never be admitted in words, but the button needs attention. It craves it.

How quickly the world narrows down to only them. Resentment builds from Tom, but Dean is in control. Tom will have to wait. He is invited but not in the same way Dean is, down to the vee of Sam’s long, firm legs, and up again towards the impatient curve. A lick of his lips causes a hitch in Sam’s breath. Beside them, Tom watches, his gaze switching back and forth between them and on all the tender, tense places on Sam’s stretched out, waiting body. Nosing the curve of lace, Dean’s mouth waters. Restraint. Tom is eager, too, moving forward with an instinctive buck. Not yet. Button first. Meeting the needs Sam has but refuses to vocalize comes first.

“Ah,” Sam inhales sharply, tilting his hips. Black. White. Blue will come later. Dean kisses the silk bow, pressing his lips against it with tenderness. Just a button. A nub hidden within reddened, wet folds. He knows how to find it, but takes his time, toying with the bow, curling his tongue under and around it, pulling at it with careful tugs. He isn’t rough here, but it’s punishment enough. Sam’s muscles relax when Dean presses another kiss to white silk, and they tighten and wind up when Dean flickers his tongue lower. Everyone has to have patience. Restraint. Too much now and there won’t be anything later. And blue comes later.

A suggestion is made by Tom. Dean goes with it.

He mouths the nub over the lace, tortuously circling it with his tongue through friction and controlled contact. Sam bucks under him, his thighs clenching, making the muscles in his lower stomach squeeze. Dean looks up. They don’t make eye contact—Sam avoids him, keeping his eyes closed, preferring to keep himself locked up in sensation. That’s fine. Dean won’t force Sam to look.

But he will make Sam feel it.

Touch isn’t out of the question. Tom slips in, over the tight peaks of Sam’s nipples, sketching, skimming, testing the sensitivity here. He moves on as soon as he sees the discomfort in Sam’s expression, barely there for a second but entirely noticed. This is a careful balance. A switch is made; Tom lingers near the choker, fingering, pressing, admiring. It too, is black, recently purchased. Dean likes this one a little better than the white one. Black is more definitive. Mine. Tom can only touch here—nothing else. It’s too sensitive of a spot.

Just as Tom pushes down on a pressure point, Dean takes his prize. He slips his lips over the button and applies weight. Lips like his? They’re made for this. There’s nothing that he enjoys more than this, flicking his tongue over the clit, squeezing his lips over the sensitive edges of it, adding spit and feeling it undulate under him. Fuck. Sam moves too much. Interrupted, Dean huffs. He grips Sam’s hips and lifts them up, dragged back down, placing his own left arm over Sam’s lower stomach. Stay _still_.

Whining, Sam’s toes curl. The panties are damp. Dean licks a broad stripe over them. He moves them aside with care, enjoying the intricate pattern. They aren’t flimsy or cheap. He made sure of that. But they are revealing in the best of ways, and when he moves them, he has access, but the lace still scratches at his stubble. He dips his head again. Skin is licked. One deep breath is taken before he curls out his tongue again, starting over, lapping faster. The clit twitches. It grows in size, red and flushed and peaked to Dean’s warm breath. Like the bow, he kisses it. He lets it know, through a figure eight, that he cares for it. Sounds spill from him; restraint there is more difficult. He can do this all night. He could get Sam off like this for hours, if that’s what Sam wanted—if that’s what Dean understood Sam wanted.

Hungry, and slipping in his restraint, Dean opens his mouth and seals it over the clit completely. He lets out a deep, rumbling groan, the vibrations of it surrounding the clit mercilessly. Sam moans. Tom begs.

Dean breathes in and out through his nose. His tongue alternates with its abuse, changing the motions from fast to slow, figure eights to circles to a A-B pattern that the clit swells to. With his right hand, Dean signals Tom. This is good. Now.

Wrist control is crucial. A snap of leather lands on the outside meat of Sam’s left thigh. Dean doesn’t flinch; Sam does. He cries out, clasping his hands over his mouth and screaming into them. Tom strikes again, on the same exact spot. At the same exact time, Dean suckles the clit in his mouth, pulling hard, lapping the tender base of it.

Sam prepped before, in the shower, alone. Still soft and open, plugged up, Sam is mostly ready. Dean has to apply lube. He knows Sam hates that part, but the lube on the plug isn’t enough and Dean doesn’t take chances with this part. They stopped using condoms with each other in their thirties; but lube is an unfortunate necessity. Tom distracts Sam, snapping harder on the alternate thigh. Multitasking awards should be presented to Dean. His mouth never leaves the clit while he lubes his cock up, once again leaving his briefs on. His eyes glance over to Sam’s throat. It’s a three day weekend. Blue can happen.

A question is asked through a pause from Dean and Tom, who both temporarily back off.

What does Sam want?

An answer is given through the twist of Sam’s hips, turning over, legs spread, knees pushed up. From behind. The first few times, Dean asked, suggested, tried. But no. This way is best. He has to trust Sam in that, just like Sam trusts Tom.  Nothing can ruin the illusion. From here on out, Dean will take care with his hands, but with Tom involved, his hands will be occupied anyway.

Sam runs every day, even in the winter, when sane people stay inside. Despite this madness, the efforts show, put on display by the panties, appreciated by Tom’s light, explorative touch. Flipped over, this is new territory for Tom—some of the best for what he means to do. These are the nerve endings he means to tune and play to sing. Dean allows Tom have his fun; the backs of Sam’s thighs are rubbed, in broader strokes, the cool drag of leather leading up and up and up. Dean shivers, gripping his cock, stroking it as he enjoys the view. With confidence, Tom delves into every part of Sam, under and over and in between, settling at the section of skin where Sam’s thigh and ass meet. Sam’s breathing accelerates and the sheets twist. Here, first; Dean nods.

It’s all about technique. This isn’t amateur hour.

 _Snap_.

The sound Sam makes is raw. It fills up Dean’s room, before it sizzles into a hiss and stops with a sigh. Same spot; lighter this time, other thigh. This is a tease, to see if Sam can obey Tom the same way he obeys Dean. Tom grazes the outline of the panties, moves to the top curve of Sam’s ass. Here? Like this? A feathered skim.

“Please,” Sam exhales, trembling, heavy, and wet. “Please.”

Dean breathes back, his hand on the small of Sam’s back, “Ask.”

Into darkness, Sam’s voice echoes. “Tom, please…!” Satisfied, excited, Tom interrupts, striking down on the right, rounded perk of Sam’s ass. The sound of leather in the air, launched towards lace and nerves and flesh, fuels Tom on. Right side first. Alternating tempo and strength. The most biting snaps aren’t the ones that cause Sam to cry, to quiver, to break down. It’s the feather light taps, the hints, the portioned samples to skin that craves mastery.

Moved forward, Dean lines up their hips. He doesn’t ask.

Thick and twitching to the sound and feel of it all, Dean pries Sam open. Sunk into squelching, tight heat, Dean bites down on his lip. Restraint. Wait for it. Breathe out. The muscles around his cock spasm and fight, simultaneously fighting the intrusion and pulling him in. Sam is mostly gone, shoulders arching, hips lifting and legs spreading for access. Want.  Leather rises in the air. Need.

Together, Tom and Dean pound into Sam. Tom bites, leaving the brightest, striking scarlet marks. The leather braid is gripped, held onto firmly as Dean changes the pace of his hips, coiling, curling, avoiding a different button. He feels good. Of course he does. He feels the best this way, his balls slapping against Sam’s hips, his thighs working with effort even if his knee hurts, holding himself up and pushing Sam down, mounting, fucking into the tight, sloppy hole that’s all his and no one else’s. Not even Tom’s.

But it’s not completely about how he feels. It’s about wringing every hoarse and desperate sound out of the center of Sam. It’s about carmine and cardinal and crimson under and around the black panties. It’s about feeling the most vulnerable part of Sam open up, clench down around Dean’s cock, and fuck it just as rough. It’s about the nerve endings on Sam’s shoulders, Tom whacking and striking and working until there is a brilliantly red gradient that will sting for days.

It’s about Sam begging Dean, even if the words are slurred and there are tears mixed in.

It’s about trusting Sam to let them know. Dean fucks him harder, corkscrewing his hips, pounding with a force that makes the nightstand and the dresser shake, separate from the thumping of the headboard and the squeak of the mattress. He holds onto Sam’s left shoulder with his left hand, digging his ring there, creating a mark separate from the ones Tom leaves. They’ve timed it now; with every three thrusts forward that Dean makes, Tom lashes and licks with leather.

Not all of it is perfect. Dean slips. Sam’s’ thoughts glue together and muscles tense the wrong way.

Tom strikes Sam across the ass, near the fusion of their hips. No.

Time for blue.

Windpipes are delicate things. They both know this. But even more than that, Dean knows where exactly to slide his fingers. He groans when he touches the choker, electricity snapping from the base of his cock all the way to the bloated tip. Closing his eyes, he forces Sam’s hips down, driving them into the bed, covering Sam with every inch of himself. Applying pressure with his hips and fingers, Dean starts blue. In safer places, Dean bears down, leaving bruises, digging up sapphires, licking cobalt.

Sam is breathing faster, gasping louder, long eyelashes fluttering. A sound he makes alerts Dean. Close. Very close. But… something… won’t leave Sam’s mind. It found its way in and it doesn’t belong.

Fingers moving into proper position, Dean braces them. He takes in a deep breath and steadies his hips.

Royal blue. Indigo. Shades bloom under the choker. Dean reaches down but keeps his hand to the one place he knows is safe: the white bow. He fingers it, tugs the underside of it, flickers over the rounded nub of it. Almost.

Letting go, there is no more restraint. They work against and with each other.

Dean places his mouth near Sam’s ear again. Almost. Black. White. Blue. Mine. Only mine.

“All I have.” Squeeze.

“All I need.” Push.

“You’re the air.” Pulse.

“I would kill to breathe.” Promise.

Gone, Sam comes, twitching and shaking and crying and free.

Tom steps in one last time. The final snap lands on the inside of Sam’s left thigh, grazing Dean’s. The sound of the leather tip hitting both of them knocks them each off rhythm. Sam lets out a shout into the sheets, thrashing, bucking, and coming on, all around, and over Dean’s cock.

Dean lets himself go. He drops the crop and twists his hands in Sam’s hair, kissing his neck, licking stripes of sweat, biting down hard when he starts to come, his toes curling and eyes rolling back. Every sensation is magnified. He fills Sam up, spills over, buries himself as deep as he can, crying without realizing. Marked up, broken apart, Sam is his to piece back together.

 

Black. Blue. White. Red.

Dean kisses it all.

Brushing back Sam’s hair, he sighs. Their breathing slows. It’s just them now. As it always has been and always will be.

“Break my heart, built from all I have torn apart.”

Thank you.

“All I have. All I need. You’re the air I would kill to breathe.”

 


End file.
